Never Meant to Return
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: John makes the connection: Sherlock was never meant to return from the exile that he was being sent on. That... explains a few things. [Spoilers for TAB/post-TAB. Trigger warning for canon drug use and attempted suicide.]


**Never** **Meant to Return**

Despite the fact that Sherlock had pushed his way from the plane and hopped into the car, exclaiming that he knew what Moriarty was going to do next, (never-mind that Moriarty was still dead, according to aforementioned consulting detective) the man dropped off moments into their drive without any explanation of what it was or where they were going.

It was no surprise, really. But he fell asleep against John's shoulder, the three of them crammed into the back with Mycroft in the front, and John didn't know if he should strangle him... or hug him.

Why Sherlock got to do this, or why Sherlock _thought_ he was allowed to do this, John had no idea. Take the drugs, over and over again, like he didn't matter to anyone else or like nothing mattered to him. Because that wasn't true. None of that was true.

That was the version that Sherlock wanted to present to the world; the fact that he was only a brain and no heart, that he was a calculating machine devoid of emotion. But John knew Sherlock. And he didn't believe any of it.

So, _why_?

"... He was high earlier."

"Hm?" Mary looked at him.

John tore his gaze away from Sherlock's mop of unruly hair, and met Mary's gaze. "Well, he can't have taken all of that in five minutes. He was high on the tarmac, before the plane took off. He was high, and I didn't notice."

"Well, to be fair, none of us _expected_ him to be high."

John sighed. "But has he been using all this time? Since Magnussen, through Christmas? He said it was for the case." Which was bullshit, John knew, and once Sherlock had gotten that fix in the beginning of the Magnussen case, he wouldn't be able to just walk away, but he hadn't noticed, he hadn't said anything...

"This isn't even his usual," he continued. "Usually it's morphine, cocaine. Right?" He directed the question at Mycroft, who did not respond. "Where did he get all this stuff? And why now?" Sherlock had torn up the list, the cocktail of drugs that he had taken, overdosed on- those were strong enough to do damage on their own, and mixing them together was enough to _kill_ him.

And Sherlock should know that, should know better than to do that. If he was an addict, he was at least, John expected, one that knew his own limits, what he could take and what he couldn't, and even Sherlock bloody Holmes couldn't take that mess and expect to-

 _Oh_.

But maybe he hadn't expected to at all.

Maybe Sherlock hadn't expected to wake up.

Maybe Sherlock had taken those drugs in hopes that he _wouldn't_ wake up.

"John?"

John blinked back to reality, looking over at his wife again. The look on her face was concerned, eyebrows pinched as she looked at him. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"What if..." John said slowly. Saying the words out loud seemed like it would make it permanent, or more real. Sure as hell John wasn't going to be so stupid to leave Sherlock alone after this, even if they had the case of 'Moriarty' on their hands to distract them. "What if he took that with the intention of not waking up?"

Mary's frown deepened; Mycroft shifted in the front seat.

"He wouldn't do that. Right?" Again his question was directed at Mycroft, who did not answer again. "But he had this case on in Eastern Europe..." John trailed off. "What was this case, anyway?"

The elder Holmes finally spoke. "It was an undercover case. A _dangerous_ undercover case."

"How dangerous?"

No response.

"Mycroft!"

"I suspect that he would not have lasted half a year."

The reality of that statement sunk in slowly, and John didn't realise that he had grabbed a fistful of Sherlock's coat until after the fact. He didn't let go of it, needing something to hold him back as the anger boiled through him.

"You sent your brother on a suicide mission!?" he demanded.

"It was the lesser of two evils, Doctor Watson." Mycroft glanced at him in the rear view mirror. "Surely you understand. With the exile, he might have had a chance-"

"A _chance_?" John hissed. "You're the smartest person we know! If you told him he only had six months, then we know he only had six months- oh." He looked back at Sherlock. "That's why he did it. He took all those drugs because he was going to be killed, anyway, and he'd rather die by his own devices than let it play out. Because he knew he wasn't coming back, and _that_ was why he was reading our blog. Because that's his life, those cases."

All his happy memories.

John's fingers seized around Sherlock's coat slightly and then relaxed, finally letting go of the wool fabric beneath his skin. Sherlock tried to pretend that he was unaffected by the world, that he didn't care, when he was one of the most sentimental people John knew. He didn't show it unless it was drastic, apparently by doing drugs and slipping towards suicide.

"... Pretentious prick," he muttered. Couldn't Sherlock just laugh or cry or be happy or upset without all the melodrama? Couldn't he have just _told_ him, instead of masking it up by shooting up? Couldn't he have talked to him rather than going to die by himself?

... No, because he was Sherlock.

John just couldn't believe that they had all been so _stupid_. All of them.

He wanted to ask Mycroft if he didn't value his brother's life _that much_ , to send him away on a mission which he couldn't return from. But he knew that wasn't true, because out of all of them, Mycroft was perhaps the one who cared the most for his little brother.

He wanted to ask Mary if she had noticed anything; she was acclimatised to the lifestyle and she could read things just as well as the rest of them could. But Sherlock was _John's_ best friend, and while Mary _could_ notice, the one more likely to was himself and

 _how_

had he been so blind to not realise what this whole thing was doing to Sherlock? Not only the development with Mary, but the entire case with Magnussen himself, the drugs, Sherlock's brush with death, hell, even stemming back to his own wedding when he should have been more proactive at pursuing Sherlock after he had left the reception early...

So much had slipped through the cracks, and how _terrifying_ a realisation to come to after only nearly losing his best friend in one way or another.

Maybe it wasn't such a surprise that Sherlock hadn't come to him for anything, a case, a cold, a cup of tea. Why he didn't say what was on his mind to him. Sherlock might have been the one to go away first - a tactical move, throwing himself off a building, who would have guessed, what was his life? - but John hadn't come back. He had gotten married, and yes, he deserved a life away from Sherlock, but not a life _devoid_ of Sherlock.

He was fairly certain a portion of all of this was his fault. It was something he couldn't fix now, but Sherlock was living and breathing, pressed warm against his shoulder as he slept. None of them would be taking that for granted, not taking Sherlock's presence for granted.

"... Maybe _we're_ the pretentious pricks," John muttered.

"John, I am _trying_ to sleep."

John jumped. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock groaned, pulling his head away from John's shoulder. "I knew from the moment Mycroft got in the car, I was going to end up in hospital, so you could at least let me _try_ to sleep now." He sat up a little bit. "But you've been nonstop talking since I closed my eyes."

"I thought you were asleep!" John protested. "You've been listening this whole time?"

"Unfortunately." Sherlock twisted around, flopping his head onto Mary's shoulder instead. "Mary, please save any of your worrying on my drug tendencies until _after_ I'm tucked up in a hospital bed."

"You-" John trailed off, rolling his eyes. "I would have shut up earlier if you'd said something." And maybe not discussed Sherlock's potential suicide attempt right in front of him.

"No, you wouldn've. Your thinking is abhorrently loud."

"I thought I didn't think enough."

"You think about plenty," Sherlock said, nestling closer into Mary as she ran her fingers through his hair. "It's just usually lacking in substantial content."

John snorted. "Nice." He shook his head and looked to the window. "Well, we'll be quiet now so you can rest."

Sherlock exhaled heavily. "Thank you." There was a little shifting as Sherlock got comfortable, and then silence was then only broken by the purring of the car engine.

 _Yeah. You're welcome_.

John didn't say it out loud, and he didn't say the unspoken promise that went with it:

 _We'll be with you every step of the way_.

* * *

 **A/N: I AM STILL A SHERLOCK FAN AND THE ABOMINABLE BRIDE WAS SO GOOD HOLY MOLY.**

 **But I definitely want to write some more for this episode. This headcanon [that Sherlock was actually trying to commit suicide] was circulating on Tumblr (I don't even know who started it?) and I have accepted it, and I needed to write for it, so I did. Yes, I also plan to write more for TAB, but bear with me, writer's block is kicking my butt on _everything_ lately and I'm hoping it's kicking itself out since TAB aired. xD**

 **I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks for reading!**

 **PS - if you wanna gush over TAB, I'm totally available and will continue to be. Send me a PM or find me on Tumblr, I've been nonstop talking since I watched it xDD**


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